Now You See It: A Toby Peters Mystery

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Cawelti was a vindictive, petty, grudge-carrying hothead, but there were some things he was not. He was not corrupt, and he was not congenitally stupid. He would come to the same conclusion I had, and then Blackstone would be in even worse trouble than he had been when Rand had still been breathing.

  I finished looking around. No address book. No checkbook, no notes. There was a black chest in the bedroom closet. I opened it. Magic tricks. No black satchel full of money. I snapped it shut and got out of the apartment, closing the door with my handkerchief-covered hand.

  “He in?” a man’s voice said behind me.

  I didn’t know when he had crept up on me. I lifted my hand and knocked at the door I had just closed.

  “Doesn’t seem to be there,” I said, turning to face an old man with stoop shoulders, a little shorter than me with bright blue eyes in a very craggy face. He was wearing overalls and a gray work shirt.

  “You a friend?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Greater California and Arizona Life Insurance Company. Harvey Cortez. Got a call from Mr. Rand, but …” I shrugged. “It happens in my line of work. They tell you to come and they’re not there.”

  “You weren’t in there just now?” the old man said.

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Mrs. Gatstonsen next door said she heard a noise from in there a little while back,” the man said. “Like something breaking, someone falling down.”

  “Seems quiet in there now,” I said.

  “Mrs. Gatstonsen is always hearing noises,” he said. “She’s a widow.”

  “That explains it,” I said. “You think she might be interested in insurance?”

  “Ask her,” he said. “Your risk. She’ll give you coffee and an earful, and I doubt she’ll buy the time of day for a penny—but it’s your time.”

  “I guess I’ll skip Mrs. Gatstonsen,” I said.

  “Briefcase,” the old man said.

  “Briefcase?”

  “Where’s your briefcase, Mr. Harvey Cortez?” he asked. “Insurance man without a briefcase.”

  “In my car,” I said, pointing at the street. “Wanted to be sure Mr. Rand was home. It’s heavy and I’ve got a sore arm. Handball.”

  He stood there for a few seconds, sizing me up. I smiled. I don’t think he liked what he saw and he would certainly remember me, but there was nothing I could do about it.

  “I’ve got no time for games,” he said. “Never did.”

  “I’m not playing …”

  “Handball is for people who can’t fill their time with what’s worthwhile,” he said.

  “You’re a man of strong convictions,” I said. “I respect that.”

  “Then vote for Dewey,” he said.

  “I will,” I lied. “Better get going.”

  I looked at my father’s watch on my wrist. I didn’t pay attention to the time. It was never right. I didn’t wear it to know what time it was.

  I stepped past the old man, knowing he was watching me over his shoulder. I walked at what I considered the normal pace for an insurance salesman who had clients to see and a living to make.

  It wouldn’t take long for the old man to try the door of Rand’s apartment. It wouldn’t take long for him to reach for the phone and call the police. It wouldn’t take long for John Cawelti to come looking for me.

  The lunch crowd was gone, so Anita took her time serving me a tuna on toast, fries, and a Pepsi. I could have gone back to the Farraday, picked up a few tacos from Manny’s, sat at my desk, and waited for Cawelti to come for me.

  My tooth was most definitely bothering me, creating a constant heavy pressure that I still didn’t want to call pain. I used the oil of cloves. I also needed a dose of common sense, a remedy I generally was a little short on. I told Anita what had happened at Rand’s apartment.

  “So?” I asked, washing down a French fry with a drink of Pepsi.

  She brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead and said. “So, I think you should pull out a nickel, put it in the phone, call Phil and tell him what happened.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “But he’s got sick kids and …”

  “He’s a big boy,” said Anita, taking my now-empty plate and walking over to put it in the bin of dirty dishes under the counter.

  “Very big,” I said.

  “Got a nickel?” I asked.

  “It can be arranged. How’s that tooth?”

  “Playful,” I said.

  She reached into her uniform pocket, came up with a nickel and flipped it to me. I caught it in my palm and closed my fist on it.

  “Just like in the movies,” she said with a smile.

  I went to the phone in the back of the drugstore near the washrooms and called Phil’s house. Phil’s sister-in-law Becky answered.

  “Me,” I said. “How’s everyone?”

  “Doctor Hodgdon said we’ll all survive.” Her voice dropped. “How’s Phil been behaving?”

  “Like Phil,” I said. “Well, not exactly.”

  “Right,” Becky repeated. “Not exactly. He’s going through the motions, Toby. You have some good news for him?”

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “I’ll put him on.”

  I looked over my shoulder toward the counter. Anita was serving coffee to a guy in a brown delivery uniform. He was leaning forward and grinning. Anita was smiling. I was jealous.

  “Toby,” came Phil’s voice.

  I told him about Melvin Rand, my tap dance with the old guy Mrs. Gatstonsen had called.

  “Where are you?”

  I told him.

  “Stay there.”

  He hung up, and so did I. I went back to the counter. The delivery guy was a few years younger than me, a few pounds lighter and definitely better looking. He looked over at me and raised his cup of coffee. When he put it down, Anita refilled it. He winked at her. She looked at me and gave a shrug so small that only a trained detective or a half-blind bus driver could see it.

  “How’s it going?” the delivery guy asked me.

  “I’m waiting to be picked up by the police,” I said.

  “That a fact?” he said, winking at Anita to let her know he knew a joke when he heard one, even a bad one. “Maybe I’ll just hang around and watch. Don’t have to make the next delivery for an hour and change.”

  “Be my guest,” I said. “What do you deliver?”

  “Appliances. The May Company,” he said. “Who’d you kill?” Another wink.

  “You mean in my lifetime, or just today?”

  “Let’s stick with today. Who do the cops think you killed?”

  He was obviously enjoying himself. I wasn’t.

  “A magician,” I said. “No, make that a waiter.”

  “A magician? Hey, he do any tricks?”

  “He plays dead,” I said.

  The appliance delivery man looked at his watch and then at Anita. He kept looking, drinking coffee, and checking his watch. After about ten minutes of banter and a full bladder, he headed for the men’s room.

  “You did the right thing, Toby,” Anita said. “Calling Phil.”

  “Depends on who comes through that door,” I answered.

  When a lone, lean man with slumped shoulders and a fedora pulled down over his eyes came in, I felt a little better.

  Steve Seidman saw me, walked over, and sat. Anita brought him a cup of coffee. Seidman added three spoons of sugar and a lot of cream.

  Steve was my brother’s former partner, and still a cop. The best thing about him was that he wasn’t Cawelti.

  The delivery man came out of the men’s room tightening his belt.

  “Hey, fella,” he called to Seidman. “Don’t sit too close to him. The police are coming to arrest him for murdering a waiter.”

  Steve put down his coffee mug, reached into his jacket pocket, came out with his wallet, flipped it open and displayed his well-polished badge to the delivery guy.

  The fellow dropped two quarters on the counter and lef
t without looking at Anita.

  “How’s Phil?” he asked.

  “Could be better,” I said.

  “You play it too cute, Toby,” he said, reaching for the sugar.

  “It’s the imp in me,” I said. “Phil told you the story?”

  “Officially, I haven’t talked to Phil,” he said. “You called me about an hour ago, said you went to see this guy Rand and found him dead. You were being a good citizen.”

  “The old man,” I said. “The janitor.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Seidman said.

  “Cawelti?”

  “It’s my case,” Seidman said. “You called me. You might even wind up with the mayor giving you a good citizenship medal. Finish up and we’ll go take a look at the body, and you can fill me in on what this is all about.”

  “It’s a long story, with two other dead guys,” I said, sighing.

  “Is it interesting?” asked Seidman.

  “I think so,” I said. I sighed again.

  “Make it a short story.”

  We both finished our coffees, left what we owed, and got up. I waved to Anita, who waved back, and we headed back to the Caliente Fountain Apartments. We went in Seidman’s unmarked car, and I kept the story short.

  The old man was nowhere in sight when we stood in front of Apartment Six. Seidman turned the knob. The door was still unlocked. We stepped inside. Everything looked the way I had left it, except for one thing. But it was an important thing: Melvin Rand’s body wasn’t lying there looking up at the ceiling.

  “Maybe he wasn’t dead,” said Seidman.

  “He was dead.”

  We looked in the bedroom, under the bed, in the closet. No Rand. No gun. No note.

  “He was here,” I said.

  Seidman was about to say something when the phone started to ring. We were standing in the living room. The telephone was on a small coffee table with a scratched top.

  Seidman picked it up and said, “Hello.”

  He listened for a moment, then held it out.

  “It’s for you.”

  “Phil?”

  “No,” said Seidman.

  I took the phone and said, “Hello.”

  “I’m sorry,” the person on the other end said. The voice sounded high, maybe falsetto, filtered through a towel or a piece of cloth.

  Seidman had already moved to the window and parted the blinds enough to get a look outside. Whoever was calling must have seen us come into the apartment, must have gone for a nearby phone. He or she couldn’t be more than a few minutes away.

  “Where’s Rand’s body?” I asked.

  Seidman nodded and mouthed, “Keep him talking.”

  Then he went out the door and closed it behind him.

  “Where it belongs,” the caller said, almost weeping. He seemed genuinely upset.

  “And where is that?”

  “Keller’s house.”

  “Why there?”

  “It’s where he belongs,” said the caller. “I didn’t think you’d find the body.”

  “You saw me come in here earlier?”

  “I followed you. I wanted to tell you to stay away, but how could I? Then you’d know I killed him. And then after that old man showed up … I had to move him.”

  “And nobody saw you?”

  “I put him in a trunk and … it doesn’t matter. I already called the police and told them to go to Mr. Ott’s. They’ll find the body and the note and the gun and it will all be over.”

  “I don’t …” I began, but he cut in.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You were with Rand at Columbia, weren’t you?”

  “I had no choice,” the caller said.

  “You always have a choice.”

  “Yes.” There was a pause. “But sometimes the choice is a very, very bad one.”

  “Just one more question.”

  He hung up, and so did I. I went out the door and ran toward the street where I stopped and looked both ways. There was a phone booth about two blocks to my left. I could see Seidman running toward it. I started after him.

  “Missed him,” he said. “He saw me coming, didn’t even have to run, just got out of the booth, walked to the corner, and turned. When I got there, there was no one.”

  “Get a good look?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “Dark coat, collar pulled up. It could have been a woman. It could have been Myrna Loy.”

  Seidman was a sucker for Myrna Loy.

  “I know where Rand is,” I said.

  “Lead on,” he said, and we went back to his car.

  Chapter 16

  Hold up a handkerchief. Show it is plain and white. Hold up a wooden kitchen match. Wrap the match in the handkerchief. Tell the victim to break the match. They break the match. You hand the handkerchief to another person who you ask to shake the match loose. The match is no longer broken. Solution: Slide a match into the hem of the handkerchief before you do the trick. When you have the second matchstick in the handkerchief, hold the handkerchief so that the person breaks the one in the hem. Then, when you shake the handkerchief, the whole match will fall out.

  —From the Blackstone, The Magic Detective radio show

  THERE WERE TWO MARKED POLICE cars in front of Ott’s house in Sherman Oaks. Seidman pulled in behind them, and we went to the door where a uniformed cop stood guard.

  The uniformed cop was an old-timer named Ginty. Ginty had seen it all, including us. He didn’t have to see Seidman’s badge. We went in and down the hall of posters to the living room.

  Rand wasn’t on the floor. He was seated in an armchair, note in one hand, gun in the other. Cawelti and a uniformed cop I didn’t know were standing over him.

  Cawelti turned and said,

  “You got him,” Cawelti said.

  “What are you talking about?” said Seidman.

  “Peters,” he said, pointing at me. “He set up this phony suicide to protect his client.”

  “Suicide,” Seidman repeated.

  “Phony,” said Cawelti, looking at Rand who looked at me. “He couldn’t shoot himself in the heart at that angle. No blood on the floor. Note’s not signed. Phony. What are you doing here?”

  “Called in,” Seidman lied. “Desk said you were here. I was having coffee with Peters at a drugstore.”

  “Just pals,” said Cawelti with as perfect a smirk as man could create.

  “Talking about Phil,” Seidman said.

  “Won’t wash,” said Cawelti.

  “Calling me a liar?” said Seidman flatly.

  Maybe there’d be a shoot-out at the Calvin Ott corral. Cop against cop. With the uniformed guy, me, and Rand as witnesses.

  “Bullshit,” said Cawelti.

  “You have some evidence or just bluff?” asked Seidman. “Seems to me if Peters did this he’d do a hell of a better job. This looks sloppy, amateur.”

  “Then it was Blackstone,” said Cawelti. “Phony note to clear him of a murder he can’t squirm out of.”

  “Can’t we all be friends?” I said.

  Cawelti glared.

  “You aren’t funny, Peters. Never were.”

  “You need a sophisticated sense of humor to appreciate my droll wit,” I said.

  “Why does Blackstone want me at the Roosevelt tonight?” he asked.

  “Come and see,” I said.

  “Message said he would show how Ott was murdered,” Cawelti said. “Maybe he can explain about this guy and Cunningham, too.”

  “Be there and find out,” I said. “Should be a good show.”

  “Let’s go,” said Seidman.

  “I’ve got more questions,” said Cawelti.

  “I’ve got a good lawyer, remember?” I said.

  “You going to hold him for something?” Seidman asked.

  Cawelti clenched his fists and looked at the uniformed cop, who was trying to be invisible.

  “Okay, then we’re going,” said Seidman.

  On the
way down the hall I expected Cawelti to call out something, probably an echo of some old movie, like “You haven’t heard the last of this, Peters.” Or, “We’ll see who has the last laugh” or “You’ll never get away with this one.”

  He said nothing.

  I started thinking of that other man, the one who had been with Rand at Columbia, the one Cornel Wilde said he could identify from his hands, the one who had maybe killed Rand, called me at Rand’s apartment, and moved the body to Ott’s living room. I was wondering who and why.

  When I got back to the office, Phil was at his desk.

  “Kids okay?” I asked.

  He nodded. I told him what had happened and then got on the phone. I couldn’t reach Wilde on the Columbia lot, and I didn’t have a home phone for him. I asked Phil if he could get one for me. He got on the phone and, two minutes later, hung it up and gave me a number.

  I called it. A woman answered, and I asked for Wilde, who came on almost immediately.

  “This is Peters,” I said.

  “I remember you.”

  “The man you crossed blades with at Columbia. He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He was murdered,” I said. “Maybe by that guy who was with him when he came to blackmail you. Still think you could identify him from his hands?”

  “I’m certain.”

  I asked him if he could be at the Roosevelt for Blackstone’s party later. He said he would make it.

  I hung up and looked at my brother.

  “I think I know who it is,” he said.

  “The other guy?”

  He told me. I said, “We’ll see in a few hours.”

  I started to reach for the telephone to call Gunther, and then it hit me. It hit me violently in my tooth, like the stab of a long needle. I think I made a less than manly sound and closed my eyes.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Phil asked.

  My eyes were watering. I reached into my pocket for the oil of cloves and pointed at my mouth. I couldn’t talk. Phil watched as I dabbed the liquid onto my tooth with my finger. The pain was still there, sharp, and getting sharper.

  “Toothache?” asked Phil, getting out of his chair.

  I nodded.

  “Open your mouth,” he said, coming over to me.